


Tahiti

by ignited



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-23
Updated: 2004-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May, 1964. Paul and Ringo off to Greece, John and George off to Tahiti. Sunlight, a hotel, banter, and a test. Pay attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tahiti

It’s the kind of weather that assaults you. Eyes widen, take notice. A fan or breeze can’t relieve it -- you sleep, and you wake up wet, from the weather, not bad dreams. Unless you’re John, who seems to mix good and bad dreams just as much as he likes to mix drinks. John, who grunts and looks out from dark sunglasses, trying to make do with a hangover.

He’d been fucking plastered all right, so he leans back in his chair and rubs his temples now. John takes a drag on his cigarette, staring out the window.

Across the table, George is at ease, plainly dressed and comfortable despite the heat. They are both wearing thin trousers and dress shirts, sandals; whatever that could keep you sane in this weather. Sure, it’s understandable -- Tahiti, home of bright sun, flowers, ocean, all that noise. He thinks they both feel hotter due to being from England – Miami was sizzling, so much _sun_ , this is strange, light and hot as well.

They are at a seaside restaurant, just the two of them. Cynthia and Pattie are doing God knows what women do when they are released upon a tourist attraction with money in their purses. That means they are gone for the day, until the four meet up and board the boat they’d commandeered for this trip. Elsewhere, Paul and Ringo share a similar venture: both went with their significant others to Greece at the same time of this Tahiti excursion.

At the end of the first day in Tahiti, John mumbled, “Lucky bastards.”

However, George doesn’t feel affected by the weather, taking his time with sipping his tea.

John sighs exaggeratedly, looking left and right, then out the window again. “I’m bored.”

“You’re easily bored.” George puts his tea down, looking up at John. “We’ve got the day to ourselves.”

“Day. Morning. Afternoon. Come on, let’s start something.” John stands up suddenly, peering over his dark sunglasses. His eyes are red, and there’s the faintest hint of dark circles. “Room. Off with you.”

“All right, all right.” George stands, putting some change on the table before nearly bumping into a waiter. But by then, John’s already out the door.

\--

If it had been England, they would’ve fucked up against a wall, in an alley. It’s become troublesome to do so -- living your life out of hotel rooms, cars, and studios will do that -- but they would, for old time’s sake. Instead, they are in a hotel, having shushed the near squealing people at the front desk. Here’s a load of money, could you put the ‘do not disturb sign’ up for a few hours? Oh, and mints on the pillow. “Can’t forget those,” John had said.

When George has had his fill -- and John, weak knees and recovering balance, pulls out of him -- he merely stares out the window, at the blue sky and streaks of white clouds.

John collapses on the bed near George, leaning on his chest. He swings an arm over George’s back, nearly pulls himself to lie on top of him. Naturally, George scowls, shaking his shoulder. By no means does he want John to leave, even if there’s sweat and the trace of liquor in his breath. John drinks too much, George decides, and it’s not doing him any favors in terms of being appealing. But John knows this, and does it anyway -- knows it because _knows_ George. He knows all he’s got to do is crack a joke, be a jerk, and George’ll still want to fuck him come the end of the day.

George sometimes wonders if he should dislike himself for that, but carries on regardless.

“What d’you think they’re doing? The girls?” George says casually, getting a grunt in return.

“I don’t know,” John mumbles, burying his nose in George’s hair. He takes in his scent -- don’t know _why_ , George thinks he himself might smell terrible or something -- before going on, kissing George’s neck and shoulder. “Don’t care.”

“I know you don’t.” George frowns, rolls his shoulder muscles a bit, flexing under John’s touch. After a few moments of this, John scowls once more, rising to sit up. He stands up quite suddenly, moving to the chair nearby. After he digs into his thrown jeans hurriedly, John takes out his pack of cigarettes. He proceeds to put his jeans on, silent, unlit cigarette perched on the corner of his lip.

George watches him light the cigarette, how John stands near the curtain. Staring out the window, John quietly smokes, looking out at the blue skies and warm, golden glow of life below.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” John asks, nose a few inches from the glass. He doesn’t bother to go to the balcony; George doesn’t like heights, so he respects that, at least.

“Nothing in particular. You.” George shifts a bit on the bed, sheet sliding over his lower back. “Being that your arse is in the way, I’ll have you know.”

“Sorry. It’s a rather large arse, isn’t it?” John picks up the joke, moving back and looking down. He parades around a bit, turning and twisting to look. He looks up again, smiling eagerly. John cackles -- because he’s just _like_ that, hot/cold -- and moves over to George.

\--

Consider them both -- read the question thoroughly, then answer. Fill in the bubble, number two pencil, don’t go out of the lines.

Right after -- two jokes from Lennon, one frown from Harrison -- who gives head?  


>   
> 
> 
> A)…John Lennon, lead singer, mouth organ, rhythm guitarist. Aspires in life to “play music, get a house, money, those sort of things”, not to mention “fuck himself ‘round the bloody world if he could,” as said by Mr. Harrison.

> B)…George Harrison, lead guitarist, part time singer. Aspires in life to “play me guitar, make a few quid…I don’t care much for singing, as long as I can get my hands on some good guitars, y’know.” Also, “be a good little boy, which is a load of shite, far as I’m concerned,” as said by Mr. Lennon.

  


Correct answer—

\--

It’s nothing rough like George expects -- he knows there’s hot/cold, and thinks perhaps this time it’s the latter -- instead being warm, soft. Trace of tongue and there goes George’s knees, there’s teeth clacking and rough brush of vacation stubble against lips. It is messy -- _as it should be_ \-- never glorious, tinged red for this occasion.

\--

Slight kisses along the underside of his cock, right to the tip, where he laps the head, as if he's a dog. And he does it with pleasure, looking up and grinning. Looking to see the pale column of the other man’s throat stretching, groaning. Twisting fingers in hair, gripping the edge of the bed.

The answer’s A, Lennon content to suck Harrison off, if only to get a smile out of him, and please himself in the end.

“ _John_ — ”

\--

When the sun sets, John watches George slip on his dress shirt, the strain of fabric when thin arms poke their way. He sidles up near him when they leave, puts a hand in his pocket in the hotel lobby. George grunts, elbowing John, slipping on his sunglasses.

“We’re a pair, you and I,” John says, lowering his sunglasses to waggle his eyebrows at George. Getting laughter in return, John walks with him towards the market, where they’re to meet Cynthia and Pattie.

It’s a vacation, this, relaxation and unfamiliar weather. Same as when there’s sheets and kneeling.

It’s never the same, and because of that, John pulls George closer, if only to playfully punch him in the shoulder.

END


End file.
